


paciscor

by Saraku



Series: garden of sinners [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Canon, tags.. my greatest weakness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-27 04:42:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21112820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saraku/pseuds/Saraku
Summary: “What is my name?” Her voice is smooth, trained for her age and position.The Exarch’s hand curls slightly onto the book he holds, the one with a wyvern-esque design written in script she cannot read.“Lyna,” he replies, soft yet rough from disuse. “A gift from your parents.”





	paciscor

Once upon a time, in an era of blazing light and holding two hands in her own, she lived in the tall tales of society. Dreams of perpetual joy, of a hearkening night against the curtains of reality. Dreams were her memories, a memento of times past and of stumbling presents and of distant futures.

Her dreams were soaked in colour, of blues and whites and oranges and violets; her mother’s hair and her father’s eyes, the spiraling tower that never ended in a faraway memory, a faraway dream.

Then came the red.

(Red, red, _red_ –)

She awakens from her dreams, then; dreams of red streaked grounds and skies, of red scarves and blades, of red eyes that watched her crumble.

She awakens and nothing remains from the time before the storm.

\---

Change was the constant in her life.

She and the few survivors are gathered to the place the where the spiraling tower rests. The people around her speak in hushed tones, in soft words. She is the youngest of them, middling at an age she does not know of but enough that she bares her teeth against those who dare tread too close to her gaping heart.

Despite that, they watch over her, attending to her and the others as they sort and weave past them, their lives set to a pyre against the carnage that painted them red.

She’s left alone for a moment when a man she’d seen roaming their secluded area appears.

The man that walked in the shadows of light, giving his all yet none of himself. She watches him speak with her fellows, with the caretakers, the ones with blood-soaked uniforms.

When he inevitably approaches him, the silence in her heart overflows and shatters.

She does not remember what follows.

In the chaos of her mind, a fog clears. She blinks and looks up, the hooded man’s eyes hidden underneath cloth and yet, she can see him clearly looking at her.

His words are soft, vastly different than the hardened stone on his arm. “What is your name?”

Name, name – a gift from her parents, long past lost in the storm of change. She would not give it freely, the gift would be _stolen_ –

(And _yet –_)

“Lyna,” she replies. Her words are clumsy, untrained and rough.

“I’ve no name to call myself,” he returns, “so you may call me what you wish.

The man smiles and offers his left hand. Lyna reaches out and grasps his right.

\---

“Why me?” She asks one night, the effervescent light locked outside against one of the few rooms the citizens were allowed to foray in the Tower.

The Exarch gazes at her, eyes hidden behind a heavy hood and the unspoken question sits at his calm smile. Her books and papers lay scattered on the desk, any focus on her future occupation thrown to the skies.

“Why me,” she repeats, voice strong and unyielding, “why was I, in my preliminary years, handled by you? Why not others, why not more?”

She was but another survivor in a world that wanted none. Her peers, grafted down to their barest form, were all just like her – fighting in a dying world with naught but a wisp of hope. The Exarch had never been one to show favouritism, instead standing back and letting them jump and fall, jump and succeed.

“I do not intend to make choices for people when it comes to their lives, Lyna,” he says kindly, patience in eternal night, “I simply lead and hope to bring others to a path they can yet choose.”

“I don’t understand,” Lyna replies quietly. He has not answered her question, yet her heart accepts his response.

Her caretaker smiles, gentle and soothing. “You don’t have to.”

\---

The following day, a vicious flock of Sin Eaters lays waste upon the city. Civilians are saved, the guard’s numbers wavering but staying high, and the Exarch – underneath the weak voice and shaky movement – smiles gently at her as the mourning rites come to pass.

Soon after, she submits her application to be a member of the guard.

A warm, crystal hand settles on her shoulder when she does, lingering for a moment before pulling away for his duties.

The warmth, unlike its owner, does not leave.

\---

Her inauguration into her position is a loud affair in the barracks and while the joy will continue into the morrow, the Exarch finds time to speak to her privately yet ensuring he was not intruding on her coveted privacy.

“Protect the people, for it is not the land or the buildings that create our home, but the hearts of those that live in it.” It is impossible to mistaken the proud inflection in his voice when he speaks of the city. “The Crystarium may fall one day, left in rubble and stone, but its spirit thrives in those who live to survive it. This place is not built upon the land it stands on, but the people it keeps. Our mission is to ensure the people live on, Captain.”

There is naught to do but agree – a similar speech was given to her and other recruits upon their entrance to the guard, and yet in the Exarch’s words there lay a thread of misconception.

She wonders, then.

(Did the man who created hope not consider himself a member of their society?

Did the man see himself higher than a person, higher than gods –

Or did he see himself below that, buried underneath blood and soil?)

\---

There is a change regarding her relationship with the Exarch.

In her learning years, she was known as the ‘Exarch’s ward’, teased on and on about by Bragi and Glynard in their playful days but now, all referred to her as Captain.

It was not unwelcome, but it was a change she was unprepared for. An encounter with a family that knew her as a child made it clear that her position as the Exarch’s child was considered a background painting.

She knew full well the Exarch considered each of the budding children of his citizens to be kin of his own, more than an arm’s length away but close enough to dote on them when he could.

It makes her bristle that she finds her childhood to be framed the way it should be – it is proper, it is correct, it does not stand out for her position yet it does not overshadow her life.

It disturbs her and she does not know why it does.

In a moment of weakness, a moment of uncertainty, she rushes to the Exarch for answers to her questions, just as she did many summers ago as the frequent visitor of the place that was home in all but name.

Yet when she announces her visit and she is let in without a fuss, the questions crumble to dust in the wake of seeing her grandfather.

Nay, the Exarch.

Eyes perpetually hidden under the gilded hood make its way to hers, a welcoming smile present as his only weapon as he handles his own personal library to his whims.

When he bids her a greeting and a tone of curiosity of her hastiness lingers underneath the welcome, she exhales quietly when she notices the nigh-indiscernible shakiness of his hands, the way his voice lulls every so slightly, and she wonders why it got this far.

Her questions regarding her title and presentations and everything else falls to the side.

“My lord.” Clipped. Unyielding. Nearly _demanding_. “Might I ask the last time you considered taking a break and seeing the city you love so?”

His smile falls and Lyna wonders once more – how far broken is his pedestal of livelihood that his eternal, calming smile crumbles before her?

And she sees the change she had briefly noticed earlier.

A distance stands between then now. Not the distance between her hand and his as a child, nor their distance as the captain leading the soldiers out in the fields and his place in the Tower that scintillated his skin. This was wider, a gap in the horizon of her life’s ocean and his place in the unburdened wind.

Maybe it is her. Maybe – maybe she has not done enough, enough to show the heart of their city just how much they would crumble without him. Life would move on without him, yes, but it would not be the _same._

“Pray forgive an old man’s folly, Captain,” he continues, seemingly unaware of her rampart emotions, “but I simply cannot indulge in life’s activities – for when so many fight to protect it, I fear I do not do enough in exchange for their kindness.”

_Damn **him** –_

Anger swells and she wishes to burst, to explode and simply tell the man what he was so blind to underneath the hood that shadowed the godsdamned light –

And she breathes again. Once, twice, her chest heavy with words she dares not spill to her lord, her caretaker, the man who raised her against all odds of the world being razed.

Instead, she simply asks.

“What is my name?” Her voice is smooth, trained for her age and position.

The Exarch’s hand curls slightly onto the book he holds, the one with a wyvern-esque design written in script she cannot read.

“Lyna,” he replies, soft yet rough from disuse. “A gift from your parents.”

He remembers. It nearly makes her laugh. She was no fool – she could tell his memories were waning, his _personal_ memories – once upon a time where he would regale her with tales so wild with names so odd, she interpreted them as his own experiences, wherein now he could barely remember the letters that transcribed the names of said tales.

But of course – of course he would remember something that was not his own.

“Yes.” The words echo lightly in the smooth walls of the Ocular, lights dim and the space starry. “Under my titles and backgrounds, I am a human – a proud Vii as a result of my heritage, a name gifted to me by my parents. I am _Lyna_.”

The Exarch watches, stands at his post in eternal vigil, the silent watcher of events unfolding before his never-present, ever-seeing eyes.

“Underneath the armor I wear, the weapons I hold, the position I command, I am reminded by our home that I am more than the Captain of your guard, my lord.” So many things she wants to say, she little she could choke out. “I am reminded that I should be taken care of when injured, that I should relax my shoulders once a moment, that I should _live_ as who I am, and not exist as what I am.”

He stands so far from her, like a pillar extending as high as the tower’s spires and she fears that he would take a step back and fall from the heights of the heavens if she were to step forward and take him into the world he helped breathed new life to.

One, two, three – too many heartbeats pass before the Exarch responds. His voice was its safe softness, yet something is very, very wrong with its tone, and it has nothing to do with what words he speaks.

“I am what I am, Lyna.” The firmness is not scolding, yet it makes her breath halt regardless. “I am the Crystal Exarch, keeper of the Tower, leader of the Crystarium. This is _who_ I am, and not _what_.”

There must be something about her expression, because somehow, his voice softens further yet keeping the firm and unyielding tone. “Worry not about me, Lyna. This is what I am, who I am. And I could not be prouder of my part in your stories.”

He smiles, happy and free, and it breaks her to know he means every word.

_“I simply lead and hope to bring others to a path they can yet choose.”_

She can do naught but smile back against the barred doors of her caretaker’s heart.

Yet her own threatens to snap and lash out for letting this come to pass. How she had let the change that was the constant in her life threaten to mar one of the few stable relationships the Exarch had past professionalism.

Change was the constant in her life, yet as more time passed it only threatened to be her undoing.

\---

Two years since then, there is a man emerging from the Crystal Tower. Every face in the city she knew – him, she knew not. It is her training and bubbling protectiveness of the keeper of the Tower that stabilizes her composure.

When he replies of his connection to the Exarch, the world shifts on its axis.

Information regarding the Crystal Exarch had been written following nearly a decade since the Flood. He had raised her from her sixth summer to now – there would be nearly ninety years worth of history regarding any of the man’s connections, and almost thirty being the person closest to the Exarch, even if that gap was barely closer than any of the citizens of her home.

And yet, once such connection stood before her, tied to the Exarch and untied to the furls of history.

Change was the constant in her life, and she would be foolish to believe it would stop now. The storm that claimed her past life was threatening to stir once more, and the chakrams by her side felt like twine against the clench of her hands.

As she assists the Exarch’s friend with his needs, one fleeting thought passes by.

_Will you be here when the storm passes?_

**Author's Note:**

> mfw this was supposed to be another oneshot to fit with the theme I’m going with but Lyna demanded to have her backstory written out before I actually get to write the Lyna & Exarch scenes I had planned
> 
> ONE DAY I’LL WRITE MY EXTREMELY SELF-INDULGENT HURT/COMRFORT WITH NO PLOT, ONE DAY -
> 
> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> And thank you to all commenters! I don't really reply because I'm super bad at those and have nothing to say other than a giant thank you, so unless you like having a blithering mess, well. Oops. I really do appreciate them and they keep me motivated when I feel awful about my writing.


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